


Strawberry Gashes

by Lillielle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Blink And You'll Miss It Wincestiel - Freeform, Blood Drinking, Demon Blood Addictions Really Are A Bitch, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillielle/pseuds/Lillielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't own Supernatural.</p><p>A/U. Title taken from the song "Strawberry Gashes" by Jack Off Jill.</p><p>Sam still craves demon blood. Does it count if it's his own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Gashes

Sam hides it. He knows he must. He hates hiding things from his brother, from Castiel. But this? How can he explain this?

Dean thinks he's kicked the demon blood habit and it's true, he has, he hasn't touched it in months. Years, really. He's kicked it, he's off the stuff.  _The power's in you,_  Ruby had claimed, and so Sam had to believe her. Demons sometimes tell the truth, after all. Right when it will hurt you the most, and how could it not have hurt Sam knowing that deep down...he is, and will always be, a monster? Demon blood running through his veins. Tainting him, changing him.

He can't explain this to Castiel. Castiel likes him now. They're friends. Good friends, even. But Cas is an Angel. Even with his Grace fading slowly, he's still an Angel, and he will never understand the addiction to something so dark.

And Dean? Dean's always been afraid of Sam's powers. He never wanted him to use them, even when they saved all their asses. He was horrified when he learned of Sam's addiction to demon blood.

How, then, can he explain the little scratches and cuts he's been perpetuating on  _himself_? 

He knows what this is called. Self-injury. It's usually seen in adolescent females, but he's no teenage girl. He's a grown man, and he's got a problem. A serious problem, but he can't stop because what will happen if he does?

It starts out so innocently one day. He's frustrated. He can't help but remember Ruby's taunting words. It was him, it was always him.  _Because the power was in him._  And he has demon blood running through his veins, there's no doubt about that. He's tainted. And if he's tainted, doesn't that mean...doesn't that mean that technically, he can feed from himself?

And so before he can truly think about it and talk himself out of it, he's grabbed his buck knife and made a small yet serious gash across the side of his hand. And blood wells out, faster than he expected, and he lowers his head, catching the splash of it on his tongue. It is bright and coppery, almost tangy. It does not taste like the demon blood he procured from Ruby, but he convinces himself that's only because she was outright possessing someone. He isn't. He's just...himself. No wonder it tastes different, and he licks at it until the flow of blood slows and finally, he can wrap a bandage around it. 

He claims that it happened in the last hunt, and Dean and Cas believe him. There's no reason for it to be a lie, after all. Dean claps him on the back and tells him he's gotten better paper cuts than that, and Cas just observes him with those unsettling blue eyes before asking if he wants it to be healed. But Sam refuses. For some reason, this feels like it needs to heal on its own. And so it does, thick, misshapen scab forming over it, before falling off and leaving a white crescent of a scar. It's not a bad scar per se, but it's definitely not just a nick. Not an innocent little slip.

And it continues. At first, Sam keeps it very occasional. Only when the craving is so bad his stomach cramps and his muscles tingle like they're about to short out. Perhaps his own blood is merely a placebo, but does he really care when it's the only thing that works? Only thing that helps? No. No, he doesn't.

The scars pile up, stacking themselves on top of each other, across his hands, his arms. Moving down to his legs when he feels like his arms have become too conspicuous. Cas's eyes are on him more and more, and Sam doesn't know what to do. He needs it. It fixes him. It makes him better. Makes it so he isn't so fucking weak. He can be there for his brother.

And then one day, he cuts too deep.

Sam doesn't even notice it at first. It looks bad, yes, but don't they all, after a while? It's not like he's cut himself shaving. He's using his buck knife again, the one that he keeps obsessively clean. He doesn't want an infection after all. How ironic would that be, to die of an infection after all this shit? He catches the blood in one of the plastic water cups the hotel keeps over the bathroom sink and gulps it down, feeling sick as it oozes down his throat, painting it in metallic scarlet. His teeth are smeared with blood when he looks up into the mirror. Another splotch runs down his chin, and he realizes he will have to do a better job of cleaning himself up before Dean and Cas come back from getting breakfast.

But when he tries to get back up, to propel himself to the gauze and medical tape he's laid out on the counter, he stumbles, his head filling with gray fog. He looks down and realizes the blood hasn't stopped. His sock is sodden with it, making a sick squelching sound against the cold tiled floor. He grabs a washcloth with shaky  hands, rolling it up and pressing it against the wound. For a moment, pain flashes through his thigh, stinging him with a thousand prickly needles, and he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, biting it hard. Waiting for the static in his vision to go away, for the rushing underwater sound to leave his ears.

It recedes...slowly, as he applies as much pressure as he can to the wound. The scars and scabs from previous excursions glare up at him accusingly from his skin. White and red and gnarled pink. It is as if they scream out monster, tell the world what sort of creature he is. A freak. A freak with demon blood in his veins.

Finally, he peels the washcloth away, wincing at the sharp sting that lingers. It is still bleeding a little, but it's manageable now. He can put the gauze on and he does quickly, doubling up the gauze pads and taping them on firmly, with another pad on top for good measure. It will create a slight bulge, but nothing too noticeable. 

It is only as he is bending over creakily to try and mop up the tacky puddle of blood on the floor that he realizes Dean and Cas have come back. 

Panic trickles down Sam's spine, cold as a dash of ice water. He freezes, acutely aware of how bad it looks in here. Oh, the door is closed, yes, but it's not locked, and with him out of sight, even the quiet snick of the lock engaging will be more than enough to alert his brother and a frigging angel of his location. And then, they'll burst in, and what will they see?

Sam Winchester, wearing only his tee shirt, boxers, and socks, gauze strapped to one thigh, scars littering his upper legs, standing in a pool of blood.

 _Shit_ , he thinks.

"Sam?" his brother's voice echoes through the hotel room. "Sammy?"

He freezes. He wants to answer. Should answer. It's not like Dean will just normally come barging into the bathroom, after all. But he can't. It's like his vocal cords have welded together.

"Sam?" Cas sounds awkwardly concerned. Sam finally manages to move, grabbing the dark blue towel from the rack and just dropping it on the floor. It is immediately soaked through, but he doesn't think it's  _too_  obvious. Exactly. His pulse pounds in his ears as he grabs his sweatpants and shoves them back on, the noise of the other two fading into background noise.

It is only as the door slams open and rebounds against the opposite wall, Dean bursting in first, Cas not far behind, that Sam realizes he's still wearing his bloodsoaked socks.

"Hi?" he offers up weakly to the shocked expression on his brother's face.

"Sammy, the fuck happened?" Dean barks out, holstering his gun in the back of his jeans. His eyes are like glass, and Sam winces, just waiting for them to splinter and slice him to pieces.

"Um," Sam stalls, but Castiel moves closer to him. Despite the angel's vessel being shorter, he still manages to crowd Sam against the wall, the end of the towel rack pressing uncomfortably into his back. Those intense blue eyes stare right into his face, right into his soul.

"He has not been attacked," Cas announces shortly. He sounds bewildered and angry all at the same time. "This is...self-inflicted."

"What?" Dean is clearly still shocked.

"Look, can we get out of this damn bathroom?" Sam finally asks. He hates the pleading note in his voice. So weak. So pathetic. He's stronger than this, he knows he is, but at the moment, being stared at by a pissed off older brother and an angry angel, he feels like an errant schoolboy. Not to mention the lingering weakness that sags his body against the wall and the cold, almost jelly-like feel of his socks molded around his feet. 

He pushes his way past them both, wincing when his bandaged thigh bangs up against the doorframe. It's bleeding again, he knows, probably through the gauze, but fuck it. Let it bleed. He'll be fine like he always is.

Sam sits on the still rumpled, unmade bed. A sense of unreality steals over him as Dean and Cas join him, both staring at him like their eyes can peel him open, lay him bare, raw. It won't happen.

"It's...important," Sam says, leaning back against the slightly chipped headboard. His thigh throbs with pain, a sick, dark pulse. He's afraid to look down, afraid to see blood staining the gray fabric of his sweatpants.

"Why is it important?" Dean demands. "You were standing in a fucking puddle of blood, Sammy.  _Your_  blood. What the fuck's so important about that?"

"Addiction," Castiel intervenes. That sober, almost judgmental but not quite look is back in those deep blue eyes, and it's pissing Sam off. What right does he have, to look so goddamn judgmental? He wasn't the one who'd been fed demon blood when he was ten months old. He wasn't the one who was supposed to be human, had been born human, and yet was nothing but a monster.

Dean turns confused green eyes on Cas. The morning sun stipples bright patterns on the side of his head, making Sam squint to look at him.

"Addiction?" Dean repeats. "To what? Sammy's not addicted to anything."

"Demon blood," Cas confirms. The weight in Sam's stomach feels like lead. Dean's face turns to betrayal and then anger, and Cas quickly goes on. "No, he hasn't been drinking other demons' blood. He has kept his word to you, Dean," the angel reassures him. "He is drinking his own blood."

"But...what?" Dean echoes blankly. He scoots closer to Sam, one hand reaching out in a hesitant gesture and resting on Sam's bare arm. Dean's fingers feel cold from the chill outside, and a shiver overtakes Sam. He is wrapped in the hotel blanket before he can blink--Dean ripped it off his own bed and wrapped Sam in it.

"Cas is right," Sam finally sighs. "My addiction never went away, Dean. Not really. I know you think it's nuts, it's dangerous, it's...what a monster would do. But...Dean, I'm already a monster."

"You are not," Dean insists, his voice lower than Sam has heard it in a long time. "You are not and you have never been a fucking monster."

"But...look at me," Sam protests, suddenly frantic. He must be a monster, he has to be. None of this makes sense otherwise, it's all too crazy. He holds out his arms, showing the plethora of white and pink scratches and knots of scar tissue that litter his flesh. He's too afraid to pull down his pants, in case the gauze comes off with them, or he'd show Dean and Cas the scars on his legs, as well, to prove them wrong. They are wrong. They have to be wrong.

"I have wondered," Cas says slowly. "If you were a monster. But you are not, Sam."

Tears prickle Sam's eyes and he blinks them back, furiously, hoping to avoid another chick flick moment, as Dean likes to call them.

"I drink my own blood though," he points out, and if they notice the suspicious shine in his eyes, they ignore it.

"Yeah, and we're not denying that's a little freaky," Dean replies. "But you're still my brother, Sam. I dunno how to save ya from this, but I will. Me and Cas will."

"From myself?" Sam tries to quip, but it falls flat. Somehow, he'd thought it would.

"It is not unusual for side effects to occur after things such as what you have been through," Cas states in his own careful way. His earnest blue eyes are still peering into Sam's, and it's like he hasn't blinked for the past five minutes. Cas's hand comes up and rests on Sam's lower arm, cool but reassuringly present. On his other side, Dean does the same. His hand is warmer, more human, his palm broader. Despite having been taller than his brother for years, Sam feels almost small again. Like the days when all he had to do was yell for his brother and his brother would be there, ready to kick ass and do whatever he had to to protect his baby brother.

"We'll get through it," Dean promises him. He's so close now, Sam can feel his hair flutter with the force of Dean's breath. He wants Dean to back off, but just as much, wants him to stay.

"We should check your injury," Castiel says, and Sam winces. But it is too late. He is being propped up and his sweat pants are being carefully rolled down.

The cut has not quite bled through the gauze, although it is a near thing. Cas is the one who carefully peels the mess of surgical gauze and medical paper tape off, working with quick, precise motions that nevertheless manage to hurt. Underneath, the cut is still bleeding, but very sluggishly. A drop of blood oozes down the scarred skin.

"You need medical attention," Cas informs him, informs them both. There is a note of worry in his voice that surprises Sam. "A hospital would ask questions. I can heal this if you wish."

"Of course he wishes, do it," Dean snaps impatiently. His fingers are digging into Sam's shoulder, hard enough to hurt, but Sam doesn't have the heart to pull away from that implacable grip.

"Sam must decide for himself, Dean," Cas says. His eyes keep roaming from Sam's slightly sweaty face to the bloody wound in his thigh. "If I heal this, it will not leave a scar."

Sam chews on his bottom lip for a moment, torn. He doesn't want his skin to be smooth. Unmarked. He likes the way it is now, this twisted and torn landscape of broken flesh. It shows who he is more clearly than anything ever could. How broken he is.

But the angel is right, they can't just pop into the nearest hospital and expect it to go smoothly. And perhaps--perhaps Cas and Dean are right. That he isn't a monster.

And so he leans into Dean and clutches Cas's other hand and murmurs yes to the angel. Yes, heal me. Yes, get rid of it.

There is a brilliant flash of light that makes both the brothers' eyes slam shut, and then nothing. The cut is gone, leaving behind a pale stripe of unmarked skin. Cas has left the other scars, however, save for the nastiest ones, the ones that didn't heal quite right, inflamed and puffy. A smile curls over Sam's mouth and he looks up into Cas's face, whispering thank you.

He lies back against the headboard and feels the warmth of the two men pressed against him and feels for the first time that maybe he can beat this. 

Maybe his destiny isn't fated by his blood after all.


End file.
